


love is still the answer (take my hand)

by theprophetsaid



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: A Night at the Opera Era, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating (not Brian/Freddie), M/M, Mild Sexual Content (as in: vague bc it's about the fEeLingS yo), Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia (referenced), Roger is so tired of their BS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetsaid/pseuds/theprophetsaid
Summary: Brian slams the bottle back down on the table, the sound rippling through the walls. “Don’t do that, Fred. Don’t fucking do that.”Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Freddie throws his legs over the armrest. “Do what, Darling?”“Play with me,” he bites out, now clutching his guitar like a shield. “You’re flirting tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be exhibiting a new collection of love marks just to…”(or: Brian and Freddie are afraid that their feelings are too great a risk)
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	love is still the answer (take my hand)

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate the 45th anniversary of A Night at the Opera, I thought I'd post this. I've never written RPF before (and I know it's 100% fiction), but I needed something to improve my mental health and this did the trick. I'm strangely proud of it. 
> 
> Of course, the interpretations of 'The Prophet's Song' and 'Love of My Life' are just for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“Go to bed, Freddie.”

“Darling, you know I hate sleeping alone.”

This is a thought that can only be voiced in the deepest hours of the night, when the world around them is so quiet, and time is warped enough to lead them back to moments that have passed.

Brian looks up from his twelve-string, his eyes wide and striking in the glow of the antique lamp. Freddie’s heart stirs at the sight, at the _silence_ that somehow has a life of its own… that is, until it is broken by Brian’s gentle strumming; he always does that when he can’t speak any words.

Sometimes, he writes them down instead. At the ruffled corners of sheet music: _I want so many things, Fred._

Or he’ll turn them into real lyrics, subtle enough to leave everyone else guessing.

This song, in particular, is one that Freddie can’t help but read into because the Earth _did_ shake from the tremors of people clapping in unison. Thousands of them, loud enough to bring a planet to its knees. And yes, the world _did_ break. But not in the traditional sense.

“Brian…” Just saying his name makes Freddie’s lips tremble, so he takes a long drag of his cigarette. “What do you want?”

Like it’s the last piece of his sanity, Brian grips the neck of his guitar harder, then murmurs, “I already told you.”

An inch away from exploding, Freddie scoffs. “You didn’t tell me shit, Bri. You just…” His heart jolts, remembering the adrenaline rush; the people leaving The Rainbow in heaps were, just like the dust and the drizzle in the air, insignificant when Brian’s mouth was bruising his.

Crowded against the backstage door, he felt more alive than he ever had. Perhaps it was the thrill of knowing that a single fan in search of an autograph could come to see the kind of world that they had chosen to claim as their own. That night, the universe was truly theirs. Fuck money, and fame, and reputation. Fuck _all of it._

“I did tell you one thing,” Brian says. It looks as if he’s caught between a smirk and a bunch of tears.

Wetting his lips, Freddie recalls, “ _You’re driving me fucking mad._ ”

“And I meant it.” As he rubs his hands together, Brian’s thumb glides over the place that could've held a shining wedding band. But those plans were abruptly changed, it seems; he’s been crashing on Roger’s couch in the three weeks before they arrived at Ridge Farm.

Though Freddie wishes he could empathise, it’s difficult. Impossible, really. He’s overheard too many tense, passive-aggressive phone calls and sensed too many lingering glances to want it any other way.

“Did you tell _her_ about that?”

Brian’s jaw clenches. “No.”

By now, the cigarette between his fingers has been shortened considerably, but Freddie intends to take as much as he can get from it before the spark dies. This can be said for other things, too.

Sadly, the fire that took Brian and him to the top of the world didn’t live past that first night. Reality crept into the hotel room in the shape of Roger’s fist, banging on the door at 8 AM.

_(“Freddie, wake up! I think Brian might’ve left with some tart last night, he’s not here!”)_

It all rained down on them: The band and their dreams of making it to stardom; the fucking _press_ with its teeth and claws; the homophobia polluting the world like city smog. And that was it. They silently agreed that it couldn’t be. So, they have gone on, playing, singing, recording their hearts out to ignore the bleeding.

Some days, it works better than others: There are days where picking fights over Scrabble games feels just like the old times. They can still laugh, argue like mad, and that’s something that has Freddie hoping that maybe they are okay. Maybe they haven’t ruined everything. But, of course, there are also days where he wakes up next to another body and it doesn’t feel right, where he can tell that the hickeys blooming on his neck make Brian’s lip quiver.

_(Now I know, now I know…_

_The Earth will shake, in two will break.)_

In the song, scribbled on the paper piled on the table between them, Freddie recognises the doom. When they kissed, the world as they knew it, it ended. They were left to pick up the pieces.

“What did you tell her then?”

Brian stares at him. “In my head, I told her everything.”

The rest of the sentence is left unspoken, hanging in the smoky air: _In reality, I told her nothing._

Even though Freddie understands, he wishes he didn’t.

He wishes that he could hold it against Brian; wonder why the hell he didn’t tell his girlfriend about his finger curling around Freddie’s belt hoop, about the limo ride back to the hotel, the hand on his thigh hidden from the driver’s rearview mirror glances. About _their world,_ and how it was loud and unapologetic, but just for them. It intensified once the hotel room door was shut.

( _Did the prophet foresee that, too?_ )

“But you left her.” It’s not a question; far from it, and yet he’s still insecure. “You _left_ her, Brian.”

With the guitar still perched on his lap, Brian picks up his beer bottle from the small table, pretends to take a sip, but it’s clearly empty. His behaviour is starting to drive Freddie up the wall, so he says, “Do you need a refill, dear? Next round’s on me,” allowing just enough suggestion in his voice to keep things interesting.

And that it does, for sure.

Brian slams the bottle back down on the table, the sound rippling through the walls. “Don’t do that, Fred. Don’t fucking do that.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Freddie throws his legs over the armrest. “Do what, darling?”

“ _Play with me,_ ” he bites out, now clutching his guitar like a shield. “You’re flirting tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be exhibiting a new collection of love marks just to…”

Although the accusation is unfair, Freddie is relieved that he’s finally got Brian’s stubborn arse to say _something._ God, he’s been waiting four dreadful months for some words, any words at all.

Unafraid, Freddie holds his gaze. “Well, come on now. Finish the sentence, why don’t you?”

Brian swallows hard, his midnight work long-forgotten. “It’s… Every day I’m reminded that it’ll never be us. Every performance, every cheer, every photo in the newspaper, it slaps me in the face. If we want to be Queen, we can’t be us.”

Something about that statement makes the world shake again.In some way, it is true; they can linger as long as they want in smoke-filled rooms and steal a thousand hungry glances — at the end of the day, they will always be Queen. The band, their partnership with Roger and John, it comes first. No matter what. And that would be so easy to accept that if he just saw Brian as the phenomenal guitarist that he is. But there is so much more.

It was Brian who sat on the floor of his tiny bedroom and listened to Hendrix records with him until sundown; Brian who made him feel better about his teeth by assuring him that his smile was wonderful; Brian who always tells him the truth about his songs, even if it’s hard to hear.

Brian who kissed him in the rain, just shy of the masses, with the crowd still ringing in his ears.

And yes, everything that came after the kiss was great, too, but it’s not so much about that. In fact, it’s more about the careful cuddling at 4 AM when they both awoke suddenly; it’s about the curls of his hair, splayed on the pillow in the morning glow, and the shadow of a smile left on his lips.

Their music complicates all of that, makes it seem dangerous.

Being locked out of _their_ world and forced into the real one has made love a risk. And Brian is smart enough to know that. Freddie is, too.

Stubbing out his cigarette, he says, “We can’t go on like this either, Bri. I don’t want to hurt you—“ He suddenly has to swallow hard to keep his throat from closing up. “That’s the _last_ thing I want. I… I want you to be happy.”

For a while, he used that as a reason to suppress his sadness when Brian went back to his girlfriend. Freddie was convinced that it would be easy for _him_ to fall back into his normal life because he had someone to return to, someone that he’d intended to marry at the right time, even. But things took a different turn.

Offering a sad smile, Brian — to Freddie’s surprise — reaches across the table, leaves his hand floating palm-up in the space between them. “I want that for you, too.”

For a long moment, Freddie just stares at the hand that’s waiting to be held. Then he takes it, longing for the touch. Brian’s skin is warm, his fingertips calloused from years of relentless, passionate strumming. Those fingertips have been on Freddie’s cheek, his throat, his hips… and now it feels as if they’re saying goodbye to him.

Brian sighs, giving Freddie’s hand a gentle squeeze before he rises to his feet. “Well, if you won’t go to bed, then I will.” As he passes Freddie’s chair, he pauses for a moment to touch his shoulder. As always, as _everything_ with Brian, it lingers. “Goodnight, Fred.”

But Freddie doesn’t say it back, can’t bring his lips to form the words.

He waits until he hears the door close before he puts his head in his hands. The following few minutes are long, a constant battle against the tears that want to escape his eyes. Even though he knows that crying might provide a bit of relief for his aching chest, he doesn’t want to shed a single tear over this, over something that was doomed from the beginning.

When his vision finally clears up, his gaze falls on the pages that are spread out in front of him.

Brian’s usually neat handwriting in big, _bold_ letters that scream to him:

LOVE IS STILL THE ANSWER // TAKE MY HAND.

* * *

Brian is awake before the farm’s resident rooster the next morning, but — to be fair — he never actually went to sleep. Instead, he spent the remainder of the night tossing, turning and pacing until Roger complained through the wall, “Man, what the fuck is wrong with you? If you don’t stop moving, I will come in there and _murder_ you, I swear to God—“

To apologise, Brian makes coffee and brings a cup of it to Roger’s room at an acceptable hour. As he hands it over, he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry about the noise.”

The drummer stares at him, raising an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re actually remorseful? That’s unlike you.”

“Just shut up and drink the coffee, Rog.”

But, as usual, Roger is not so easily defied. Promptly, he places the cup on the nightstand. “Seriously, I’m worried about you. You’ve been sleeping on my sofa for three weeks but haven’t told me _why._ The break up seemed to come out of nowhere, and you’re clearly not okay.”

Gathering himself, Brian manages to resist his body’s urge to jump in fear. _He’s been found out._ And sure, Roger might not suspect that this has anything to do with Freddie, but Brian feels as if it’s written across his forehead. He’s frozen like a statue on display at a museum.

(Everyone, come see! This is Brian May, the man who screwed everything up by getting into bed with his friend!)

“Brian, snap out of it! Tell me what went wrong.”

Sadly, that’s not an option. In a perfect world, it would be. As their lives are right now, however, the truth could be devastating. It could ruin everything that they’ve worked so hard to build. All it would take is an incriminating photo or for the wrong person to find out. And terrible people seem to have their ways of obtaining knowledge that they should _never_ possess.

So, Brian doesn’t say anything. Knowing that it’s rude, he chooses to leave the room while pretending that he didn’t hear the demand.

John is in the kitchen when Brian comes back downstairs — _No Freddie, Thank God —_ cooking breakfast. When he looks up from the pan of sizzling bacon, noticing Brian, he smiles. “Morning. I’ve put the eggs and mushrooms in a separate pan for you.”

Though Brian doesn’t really care about his band members’ feelings toward his vegetarianism, it’s nice when they consider it; it puts an easy smile on his face. “Thanks, Deaks.”

“Don’t be too grateful. I’m not washing it.”

And that, _that_ simple comment, it makes him laugh. Just a little. After a horrible, sleepless night, it takes some weight off his shoulders. Joining his bandmate behind the counter, Brian finally gets to pour himself a cup of black coffee. The first sip tastes heavenly, like it might actually heal him a bit, and that’s what he needs.

What he doesn’t need, however, is Roger thundering down the stairs at that very moment, wagging a finger at him even before he’s made it any further. “Brian Harold May, I’m not done with you!”

Immediately, John’s sarcasm is brought to life, “Oh, did you guys have a row? Please, tell me _everything._ ”

While his blue eyes shoot daggers at Brian, Roger leans his elbows on the edge of the counter. “You see, Deaky, that’s the problem. He won’t tell me anything.”

In pure desperation, Brian lets his eyes run over the kitchen in search of anything that may be used to bribe Roger — an English muffin, perhaps — but he comes up tragically empty. The worst part of this is that he knows he owes his friend an explanation. In the last three weeks, Roger has been incredibly patient, hasn’t tried to interrogate him even though he showed up at the matchbox-sized apartment, with his life more or less packed up and red-rimmed eyes.

“What’s going on now?” is what John asks, his interest not as fake as before.

Roger sighs, oblivious to the invisible hand that’s tightening its grip on Brian’s chest. “Bri’s been wallowing in his own misery at my apartment for _weeks_. But the whole thing is one giant mystery. Come on, what’d you do? It can’t be that bad…”

Desperate to end this fucking conversation, Brian runs a hand along his face. “What do you think? I _cheated_ on her.”

“And so what? Why couldn’t you tell me about it? You know I’d be a hypocritical wanker if I guilted you for that.”

Now, Deaky buds in, “I wouldn’t. What the hell were you thinking, Brian?” There’s no actual accusation in his voice. If anything, his tone is light as if he’s trying his best to defuse the tension. And, to Brian’s surprise, it works. Roger gives his shoulder a brotherly shove before stealing a quick sip of his coffee.

Like lightning, Brian snatches his cup out of the drummer’s hands. “Were you raised in a barn or something?”

“Don’t be such a diva.”

John pauses. “Apropos, where the hell is Freddie?”

At the name, Brian’s heart jolts. God, he wishes it didn’t. His hands, too, forget how to act, and he has to force them to turn the spoon so that the scrambled eggs can make it to his plate. To his relief, it doesn’t appear as if his friends noticed, since they carry on the conversation.

Roger replies, “I think I heard the water running. He’s been in there a while, though.” As he says that last bit, he wiggles his eyebrows, and Deaky snorts, wrinkling his nose. “How can he even think about it? The shower here is a fucking nightmare.”

Brian can feel the skin at the back of his neck heating up. “Just leave the man alone, Rog.”

Twirling his fork between his fingers like a cigarette, Roger fires back, “ _I_ should leave him alone? Please, you’ve been hovering over him for months now. If he’s ten minutes late to the studio, you look like you could do him in.”

Though it’s a struggle, Brian manages to scoff somewhat nonchalantly.

When Roger is in the mood for a row, it’s better to not let everything get to you, but it’s difficult. It’s about _Freddie,_ after all, and he’s always been a weak spot. In the early days, that manifested in how Brian’s heart would soften every time Freddie hit a note perfectly, or how he’d have to rely on muscle memory to keep playing when Freddie stepped into the magical glow of the spotlights.

Now, the weak spot is like a bruise that won’t stop aching. Seeing the traces of other lovers left on Freddie’s skin makes Brian feel ill… makes him want to seep into the floorboards.

Still, he didn’t think it was noticeable. He’s never been prone to jealousy, so these feelings don’t belong and it’s understandable that Roger has mistaken them for anger.

With the argument disarmed, they continue to eat their breakfast: John reads the newspaper; Roger looks like someone who’d give anything to go back to bed, and Brian tries his hardest not to think about Freddie. In a quiet room like this one, it’s damn-near impossible.

For the most part, he can get by at concerts while the crowd and the music is roaring. Of course, it’s not always easy when Freddie is flowing in and out of his personal space like a dove; his wings of silk, dark eyes begging ‘ _come and get me.’_

The thing about Freddie is, even when you can’t see him, you can hear him.

This morning, he announces his presence by pressing a piano key in the next room; it rings out like gospel, clear and powerful, crying out for attention. The melody — a new one, unrecognisable — takes shape, and Brian can picture every movement of the man’s fingers.

“ _Love of my life, you’ve hurt me,_ ” he sings, making every jaw in the kitchen drop. “ _You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me. Love of my life, can’t you see? Bring it back, bring it back, bring it back…”_

The singing stops; Roger mutters an awestruck, “Fuck.”; Deaky nods slowly; Brian wants to cry because his first, selfish thought is: _‘He’s singing about me.’_

And he doesn’t ever want him to stop.

Feeling as if the walls of the main house are closing in on him, Brian makes his escape as soon as he can, bringing his six-string out into the garden. Here, he sits underneath an apple tree; the branches are bearing unripe fruit, and somehow it’s the perfect place to sing of a love gone stale, of doom in the wake of heartbreak.

_(For soon the cold of the night will fall, summoned by your own hand)_

It hurts, imagining the vocals that Freddie has already recorded for this. They are flawless, ominous, and carry the slightest hint of pain. Brian’s stomach hurt when he drove home that day, thinking about how, in spite of having messed up so badly, they can still do beautiful things. The impending doom that runs through the verses, it speaks to the inner turmoil: The nights where he doesn’t regret any part of it and the days where he hates himself, not for what he did but for what he _couldn’t_ do, couldn’t say…

Brian sings loudly enough to drown out the sound of Freddie’s continuous playing, hates himself a little more by the second. The longing pierces his chest like a knife, brings tears to his eyes.

“Love is still the answer… Love is still the answer…”

Even if the timing isn’t right.

They spend the day working separately. Freddie has that new, tragically sad song that he’s molding on the grand piano; John’s adding the final flair to a song that he wrote for Ronnie, which is so sweet and uncomplicated that it makes Brian envious. And Roger’s got that bizarre song about his car that must mean a lot to him because he locked himself in a cupboard over it.

This man called Brian a diva this morning. It’s a joke. A literal _joke._

But Roger was right about one thing: Brian’s been tense lately, especially around Freddie. If they want this band to last the year, that can’t be. They already have enough to deal with, as they’re swimming in debt and this album is shaping up to be their most expensive one yet. Perhaps the most expensive one ever recorded in all of Britain.

In effort to calm himself down, Brian forgets about the Prophet’s song once the clock strikes six. Then he fills the tub in the tiny upstairs bathroom to the brim with hot water and lets himself soak. Slowly, his roaring mind starts to quiet; it flees back to a time when things were less complicated.

They were broke but still full of self-belief. It compelled them to perform on live TV with varnished fingernails, putting their dreams on display for the whole country to see. Just a couple of years ago, the dreams were simple; they didn’t clash. The sounds that they made didn’t have to be muffled in pillows at 2 AM.

_Christ…_

Brian leaves the tub, a new emotion stirring in his chest.

In his suitcase, he finds a fresh set of clothes and the old bottle of white nail varnish that he’s been carrying around for ages, just in case Freddie was ever struck by sudden wish to bring it back.

Now, Brian will, even if Freddie isn’t in on it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and begins to paint the nails on his right hand. Since he’s out of practice, it takes him a while; he doesn’t want to half-ass it, so he’s only managed to do his thumb and index finger before a knock on the door startles him.

“Dinner’s nearly served!”

Brian’s throat tightens as he turns to stare at the door. “I’ll just be a minute, Fred.”

“My God, what are you hiding up here for, darling?” A beat of silence passes, then he speaks again, his voice bearing sudden vulnerability, “can I come in?”

Even the slightest hint of sadness from Freddie is enough to make Brian’s walls crumble. “Sure.”

As the doorknob turns, he quickly turns to focus on his nails again. Still, the sound of Freddie’s footsteps moving closer makes his heart race. Soon, Brian identifies the hint of French perfume that has etched itself into his memory. “Tell me, dear, what _are_ you doing?” Freddie asks, obviously intending to sound amused but it comes out too… _fond._

 _“_ Reminiscing,” Brian mutters truthfully, keeping his eyes down.

When Freddie kneels in front of him, however, it becomes harder to avoid his gaze. “At this rate, you’ll be here ’til Christmas,” he says before he, without warning, reaches for Brian’s hand. “Here, let me do it.”

Though Brian considers objecting, it would definitely hurt Freddie, and he’d promised last night that didn’t want to do that. He lets his guard down, doesn’t say anything. Their hands meeting have always been a wonder because the shape of them are so different, they shouldn’t fit together.

But they do… and quite perfectly, too.

Brian can’t help it; he raises his eyes and watches Freddie, the artist, paint his nails with great care. When they first met, he had pencil drawings of Hendrix on his bedroom walls, tubs of paint littered on the small desk. Upon seeing that, Brian realised that he’d probably _never_ fully understand everything that existed in the landscape of Freddie’s mind. He painted few of his secrets; told even less.

Suddenly, Freddie breaks the silence, “It’s not about you, you know. Not really.”

Confused, Brian has to bring his thoughts back to the present. “What?”

“The song. _Love of my life…_ It’s not about you.”

Despite his first reaction this morning, the truth doesn’t come as a shock. Fleetingly during the day, he’s wondered about it, but the story that the lyrics tell isn’t _theirs._ If he were to bet on it, Brian would say that the song speaks of how Freddie feels about love in general. Maybe he’s afraid that, no matter who he loves, that person will always choose to leave him. Adding to _that_ horrible insecurity is even worse than being the only one to hurt him.

Brian tries to force a smile to comfort him, but it stiffens on his face. So, instead, he turns his hand to trace his fingertips along Freddie’s palm, whispering, “I know.”

* * *

They are okay for a while.

In fact, they are okay right up until the moment they’re both foolishly drunk at the album release party.

A hundred people, strangers and friends, are packed into Reid’s house, buzzing all over the place.

It’s a miracle that they’ve managed to find a dimly-lit corner where their closeness goes unnoticed. Freddie can feel the warmth that’s rolling off Brian’s body as he turns into him, giggling close by his ear, even though nothing funny was said. It must be the hot, spiced wine and the intense thrill of relief.

After this wild success, they’ll make it, God only knows how long.

“Brian, this is gonna give us so much money!” Freddie exclaims, raising his empty glass to the crowded room. When Brian laughs, he can’t help himself, toying with the only button on his shirt that’s not undone. Then he leans in even closer to whisper, “Dear, maybe if we’re rich, they won’t dare to touch us.”

That possibility — that _dream —_ sends a shiver down his spine.

For a long moment, Brian meets his gaze, and Freddie doesn’t miss the hunger that paints his eyes, the greed… Abruptly, he’s pulled closer by the waist, nearly soaked by the drink in Brian’s hand as it splashes the floor, but it doesn’t matter; he’s tucked against Brian’s chest like the whole world isn’t watching them.

Mimicking his high-pitched delight, Brian says, “Oh, I want _everything,_ Freddie!”

They may be mostly hidden by the shadows, but the lighting won’t dim their voices. If they are lucky, the music will. Perhaps they should be more discreet, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen a smile quite like this one on Brian’s face, bright and carefree, so he’s willing to take the risk.

“Everything, huh?”

The hunger is still there, electrifying Brian’s grey irises. In truth, seeing it for the first time seven months ago had surprised Freddie because he’d always seemed so sheltered, like the cute boy at the front of the class that he’d fancy from afar. Turns out that a boy like that can have several sides to him. A naughty side, too…

“Don’t make me do anything stupid now,” Brian’s voice is low, bordering a growl.

Patting his chest, Freddie huffs. “Please, I’ve hardly touched you.”

“That’s the problem.”

Suddenly, Brian’s eyes are stripped bare, and in their most natural shade they are so breathtakingly gentle. Freddie can only watch as Brian presses a calloused thumb to his bottom lip, letting it linger for a moment.

The sweetness of it makes his heart flutter and twirl.

“Do you miss me, Bri?” He chokes out, the air in his lungs thinning.

Brian’s lip tics. “So much.”

For a while, Freddie doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, ‘ _I miss you, too’_ would be the most appropriate — also the truest — choice of words, but he’s never actually cared about what’s appropriate, and lately _they_ sure as hell haven’t put much stock in truth. Everything is starting to feel like a lie, like shallow pretend. But it’s not the kind that Freddie likes.

It’s the kind that threatens to tear his heart out of his chest.

Finally, he says, “Well, I doubt that a drunken fuck would make you miss me less,” aware that the alcohol has loosened his tongue. Still, as abrasive as is it, it’s honest, and they need that. Of course, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Brian presses his lips to a thin line while his eyes flash. “You’re probably right.”

Then, in a characteristic passive-aggressive fashion, he just walks away, his knuckles turning white from clutching the glass. The sudden shift between them leaves Freddie stunned and cold. Several moments pass before he turns around to look for Brian, only to realise that he has already managed to disappear in the ocean of guests.

After searching for ten minutes, Freddie still can’t find the familiar head of curls, but he does find Roger, or rather: Roger finds him, lifts his sunglasses as if they make him unrecognisable. “Over here, Fred! You look like a deer in headlights!” He shouts, even though the music isn’t very loud right now. In a hurry, he walks over to throw an arm around Freddie’s shoulder and lead him into the crowd of moving bodies. “Come on, let’s dance!”

And Freddie does dance. Just to forget.

* * *

In the New Year, Brian finally has an apartment to call his own.

Roger’s helping him pack the boxes of sheet music, clothes, books and the various miscellaneous items that he has managed to collect in his 28 years on this planet. Usually, he considers himself to be quite tidy, at least compared to the rest of his bandmates, but he can tell from the look on Roger’s face that he’s being judged, and it’s not hard to see why.

 _What in the world possessed him and told him to buy that scarlet, glittery robe?_ No one knows. He, for one, hasn’t laid eyes on it in an eternity, but it faintly occurs to him that Freddie would love it.

His stomach twists.

As if Roger can read his thoughts, he says, “Maybe getting your own place will be good for you. Hell, maybe you and Fred will even start arguing again.”

Brian turns to stare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Smirking, Roger folds a sweater and dumps it into a box. “You’ve been acting strangely _civil._ You know, kind of like a couple that’s been married for fifty years and doesn’t bother having interesting conversations anymore. The creative environment is suffering… So, get your shit together.”

While doing his best to brush off the ‘married couple’ analogy, Brian mutters, “if only it were that simple.”

Now, his friend tosses a six pence at his shoulder in annoyance. “It fucking is, you idiot. Are you genuinely mad at him? Is that it?”

Technically, Brian isn’t mad. He’s _hurt._ Though the difference is significant, it doesn’t feel right to say it out loud, so he just nods.

“Oh, come on. You guys have been doing this for years. You should know how to work it out. If this is about a stupid song—“

That earns a quick response. “It’s _not_.”

“Well, what is it then? Did he say something to you?” The look on Brian’s face must give him away because Roger doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he says something that makes Brian feel like a ticking bomb. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t forgive.”

_And here comes the explosion…_

_“_ What do you know about that? You don’t know anything—“ He senses his face heating up, his hands starting to tremble, and he shoots to his feet just to release some of the tension from his body. Pointing a finger at his friend, he repeats, “You don’t know _anything_.”

Suddenly, the emotion is thundering inside him, overflowing in his ribcage. For months, he’s been torn between two powerful dreams pulling him in different directions; he’s seen himself standing in blinding spotlights, his fingers running from chord to chord, with the music pulsing through his veins — and he’s seen himself tucked away in a corner. In _Freddie’s_ corner, touching his skin and his lips, longing for another life. Another time. Another place.

As always, Roger matches the ruthless energy at once. “I don’t know anything about _what_? About Freddie? For fuck’s sake, Brian, I’ve known him for as long as you have! Sometimes he says stupid things but so do you! So do I, and Deaky, too, believe it or not. But you know what? We have to forgive each other, otherwise this whole thing is _fucked._ I mean, for crying out loud… This is bigger than your ego, mate.”

In effort to hide their shaking, Brian winds his hands together. His jaw is clenched, his shoulders tense while his mind flashes with fractions of Freddie: His voice, not singing but _talking_ lowly in the middle of the night,coupled with movements that were much more vulnerable than they have ever been on stage.

Every day, Brian wishes that he had that, that he had _him_.

“You still don’t understand,” he tells Roger, forcing strength into his voice.

When Roger pulls out a cigarette and lights it, Brian understands that he’s trying his best to piss him off. After taking the first, obnoxiously long drag, he says, “Then _enlighten_ me, genius. Why is it that I just don’t understand any of this crap?”

“Because you’re straight!” He erupts, his voice fraying at the edges.

The initial reaction from Roger is utterly oblivious to Brian dying on the inside. A crooked grin spreads on his face before he says, “Yeah, but so are…” When he trails off, the amusement withers on his face, and his blue eyes widen.

This immediately triggers Brian’s flight-response, makes him bolt into the kitchen. Behind him, Roger appears to have absorbed everything finally because he mutters, “… Wait,”then calls out, “ _Bri_!”

His heart racing in his chest, Brian bends his head over the kitchen sink and starts doing his friend’s dirty dishes in a sheer fit of panic. When Roger kicks the kitchen door open — because using the doorknob wasn’t dramatic enough for this situation, it seems — he keeps his eyes firmly trained on the plates.

The heavy silence that follows the entrance is the worst part, as there is nothing to distract Brian from the feeling of Roger staring at him.

When Roger speaks at last, his voice is uncharacteristically careful, “You mean to tell me… it was Freddie the whole time?”

Brian nods, worrying his bottom lip to keep the tears at bay. Though Roger’s question could have a thousand different meanings, he has a feeling that the answer would be ‘ _yes’_ no matter what because it’s always Freddie; it’s always _been_ Freddie. Ever since the Smile days; it’s just taken Brian ages to come around, to take the step.

Roger clears his throat, obviously taken aback. “When did it change—“

“You know, I’d rather not discuss that with you, Rog.” The tears that are sticking to his eyelashes don’t needto be reminded of that night and, frankly, if he’s going to talk to _anyone_ about it, it will be Freddie.

“Brian,” his friend mutters softly, “it will be okay,” as if the sadness has expanded, grown out of Brian’s chest and filled the narrow kitchen. “But I really think you need to go and see him.”

“He doesn’t wanna see me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous now. He always wants to see you, even if you’re a whole hour late to the studio!” As an afterthought, he adds cheerily, “If you take a couple of beers—“

At that the sound of the fridge door opening, Brian whips around. “You’re serious? You think this conversation calls for _a couple of beers_?” Roger stares at him, and it looks like he’s genuinely pondering for few seconds before he says, “You’re right. Take the Moët et Chandon.”

“I’m not going to _bribe_ him!”

“Look, I don’t care what you do, Brian, as long as you get your arse out of here and go talk to him!”

Brian is not given much of a choice in this matter and can only comply while Roger all but pushes him out of the front door. But he understands that _everything_ is at stake here, so he’ll have to face the fear, chin held high and pretend that he’s not terrified of having his heart broken.

* * *

Like sleeping, dancing is dreadful when you’re lonesome. Still, Freddie tries, just as he tried that night at the release party where he lost Brian. Nothing has been able to cheer him up since — not even opera, not even his cats. It’s absolutely, positively _mad;_ it feels like trying to recover from a fever, walking around in a world that’s turned blurry.

Maybe this shouldn’t have surprised him. After all, Brian’s always been volatile. He’s fucking brilliant and _beautiful,_ but in a chaotic sort of way. It’s never taken much to tip the scale: a backhanded compliment or, let’s say, a dumb, drunken comment. As he realised that night many months ago, it’s easy to wind him up. Freddie supposes that it might be quite simple to talk him down, too, to make him feel at home.

But if Brian can’t look him in the eye anymore, then what’s the fucking use?

His silk robe swaying by his feet, Freddie stops the record player at the end of a high note and scratches Lily behind the ear before disappearing into the kitchen to refill his champagne glass _(Is their anything quite as tragic as drinking decadently when you’re more alone than ever?)_ At the last second, he changes his mind, goes for a cigarette instead.

When he’s about to light it, there’s a knock on the front door.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Freddie catches a glimpse of the world outside: The sky is black, and the snow is falling from rapidly from it, sticking to the windows. He can’t think of anyone who’d choose to visit him in this kind of weather.

On his way to open the door, he nearly trips over Delilah. “Oh, fuck! Sorry, darling.” Like a diva, she complains loudly despite the apology, then wanders off.

Finally, Freddie turns his attention back to the front door, keeps the chain lock latched because he’s not interested in a stranger seeing him dressed like this… but it’s _Brian,_ and that’s somehow worse. Even though it’s only been a few days since they saw each other at the studio, it feels like it’s been forever. His heart clenches at the sight of those familiar grey eyes, gentle as always.

He doesn’t say anything, not even when he is let in. As soon as he’s crossed the doorstep, his hands leave his pockets to cup Freddie’s cheek. The warmth that seeps into his skin from the touch is intense and inexplicable, unmarked by the winter.

Though Brian could kiss him, he doesn’t. Instead, he bends his head to let his forehead rest against Freddie’s. “I’m sorry.” In those two words alone, Freddie recognises a thousand more, and almost all of them are steeped in fear. “… Can we talk?”

Still working through the surprise, it takes a moment for Freddie to respond, “Of course, dear.”

 _Talk?_ He definitely didn’t see that coming, not in this lifetime anyway, but Brian seems determined, finding his usual spot on the window seat. Struggling to ignore the nervous tension that has arisen in the room, Freddie takes the empty spot next to him and breaks the quiet as quickly as possible, “What do you want to talk about?”

Brian meets his eyes, perhaps for the first time since the party; it sends a thrill down Freddie’s spine. “Everything. All of it.”

When Freddie replies, “Are you sure we have time for that?” he’s simply to lighten the atmosphere, but Brian grabs his hand and looks at him even more earnestly.

“I don’t care if it takes 80 years. I just… I want this to work. I want us.”

Those words take Freddie’s breath away. “Bri…”

But he’s not done talking, “And the world might never catch up. We might face a hundred shitty battles with the public, with the press, with _everyone,_ but you’re worth it. You’re so worth it, Fred.” His eyes are getting cloudy now, as are Freddie’s. Still, there’s a smile growing on his face, like the sun, slowly brightening the skies. Brian’s calloused thumb is caressing his knuckles. “And you always have been. That’s why I dared to kiss you in the first place.”

Though Brian often strikes Freddie speechless with his music, this is perhaps the first time that he has ever done it with words. To his relief, it doesn’t look like he expects a response; his expression is full of patience, which is rare for such a stubborn man. Smiling, Brian moves some hair out of his eyes and leans in for a chaste kiss that makes Freddie’s heart flutter. The sweetness of it lingers, which makes it easier to ask the tough questions:

 _What about Queen? What do we do if the press finds out? How do we keep this from compromising our professional relationship?_ They don’t have perfect answers, but at least they’re talking about it, and that alone is a victory; makes it seem like obstacles that they can overcome, tricky situations that they can manage together.

The prophet was wrong: _It’s not the end of the world_.

Now, they’ll never run out of reasons to keep talking because that’s what will keep them going, but when the sun begins to come up, they allow themselves a break.

Brian looks radiant with soft relief when he finally says, “Let’s go to bed, Freddie.”


End file.
